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Dean: It might shock you, but I don't always do what I should.
Chloe: You're my boss.
Dean: Yeah.
Chloe: Do you think about that? About ordering me around?
Dean: You sure you know what you're getting into, sunshine?
Chloe: Positive.
Dean: Yeah. I do.
Chloe: Me too.
Dean: You like me bossy?
Chloe: Sometimes. Other times… You annoy the fuck out of me.
Dean: I know.
Chloe: Doesn't that bother you?
Dean: No.
Chloe: Why not?
Dean: I like the fire.
I like it too. Dean makes me feel a lot—irritated, frustrated, needy, amused, curious, entertained. Some of it is bad.
But it's always something.
When I'm with him, I feel more than the dull, empty numb that set in with my diagnosis.
No one else does that to me.
Chloe: Do you think about me?
Dean: Yeah.
Chloe: I think about you.
Dean: I know.
Chloe: I should probably go before we get into trouble.
Dean: Probably.
Chloe: What about you?
Dean: What about me?
Chloe: What are you wearing?
Dean: Jeans. White t-shirt. Black boxers.
Chloe: Are you mocking me?
